


Stanley and the Powder-Blue Zoot Suit

by magpiesflyinghome



Series: Somewhere We Knew Each Other [1]
Category: I Am Not Okay with This (TV 2020)
Genre: Other, Reincarnation, The Turtle Wants to Apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23436067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpiesflyinghome/pseuds/magpiesflyinghome
Summary: Stan found it in a shop downtown.
Series: Somewhere We Knew Each Other [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697443
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	Stanley and the Powder-Blue Zoot Suit

He didn’t plan to spend a lot of money that day, or any at all. His idea was to stop in some of the local vintage outlets for ideas, maybe something he could buy himself for his birthday. It’s not like his dad was ever home then, and he never acknowledged it when he came back, so Stan took to buying himself presents, to spending his birthday with his music, a joint, and some terrible VHS movie playing on his television. He was just waiting for a couple more paychecks, and then he would buy his gift that he would wrap. There wasn’t much festivity in it, but it’s all he had, and he was happy to have at least the time and money to do it.

The day was still a sickly warm, the car was hot, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. He knew the AC in the car was bad, but right now it would’ve been better for him to just keep the windows open and pour a thermos of cold water down his front. At least he pulled into the right lot and he’d be in the cold atmosphere that was his favorite place downtown. The owner most likely knew him by name at this point in time, and hey, it got him deals and access to some of the non-sorted items. Her name is Margorie and she has an apron that is absolutely covered in pins, some of them being pride and others being comic pages or memes. He absolutely adores her, and she is extremely friendly with him.

Maybe it’s because he is the only one to come in more than once, or maybe because they understand each other. She’s alone for reasons and he is also alone, it’s an agreement. So, when he enters the building she smiles and waves at him, and he shouts a greeting.

While he wonders through the section of house décor, she blasts the store with music, and he smiles back at her. He passes over the cherub statues and the glass bowls with decorative flowers, and he ends up picking up a new lamp and a record stand, which he has her hold at the counter while he goes through the clothes section that takes up the whole entire back of the store.

He finds a couple more flannels and other long-sleeved shirts until he finds it. A powder blue suit is hanging above a motorcycle-turned-coffee-table, and Stan feels drawn to it. There is something familiar about it, something homey. It feels nostalgic like it’s something from his upbringing. The problem with that bubbling feeling is that there was nothing in his childhood like it. Nothing of his mother’s, nothing of his dad’s. Just this growing feeling that sits on his stomach, that this is something important to him. He could almost hear something, a voice speaking in words he couldn’t understand, and a clap. It swirled in the back of his brain as he stares at it.

His hand almost reaches out to touch it, to feel the fabric between his fingers, so he can find out what’s so familiar about it. For some reason, tears start to pool in his eyes and he has to look away, he can’t bear to look at it for a second more. He wants it, though. Stan wants to take it off the hanger and take it home with him, to hold it close to his chest until this intensifying pain stops. His shaky hand reaches up to take it off the hook, adding it to the pile on his arms and he walks towards the dressing room.

Stan pushes the fabric door open and closes it quickly behind himself. The suit goes on the nail and the rest are piled onto the chair in the corner. He is still shaking, so he leans against the wall. Stan breathes, long and slow, as he slides down and ends up on the floor. It takes him a couple of minutes to calm down, to get himself back in check so that he can get up and try on the pile of clothes behind him. He knows deep down that none of the other shirts will be able to compare to that suit, none of them able to hold him in the way it can. There is a history with that suit, something on the tip of his tongue, on the edges of his memory. He can’t remember, though. He can’t figure out what it is that he finds important, he just knows that it is. It’s one of the most important pieces that now fits into his life, it’s filling a hole. A hole that he didn’t know was empty, but now that it’s full he can’t imagine his life without it.

He rushes through the shirts, being hypercritical of the smallest thing and pushing them all back onto the hangers with speed but no precision. He continues this pattern until it’s just him, standing in his shirt and boxers, staring at the suit. Nerves take over his stomach and he doesn’t even know if the suit will fit him, but he just needs to know what it’s like. He needs to know what it’s like for the suit to hold and support him, to be covered by its warmth.

The pants slide off the bar and into his hands, then he starts to put his legs in one at a time. He gets them situated on his waist and then he tucks his t-shirt into them. They fit, which was the best-case scenario, and they don’t look awkward on him. Looking in the mirror sends a wave of happiness through him like the universe was waiting for this moment. Like a portion of himself was being returned somehow, and he easily slips the suit jacket over himself and then he is hit with something. The image of a buck-toothed boy smiling at him, a suit similar to this hanging on his small frame. Shaggy black hair covered his forehead and met with glasses that had acted as magnifying glasses. His face was happy, proud like Stan had just done something particularly brave. He doesn’t know what he did, or who this kid is, but he feels warm.

It’s a warmth he hasn’t felt in a long time, it’s the kind that goes along with a hug from his mom. When she was around when she told him bedtime stories when she hugged him as he cried. That warmth he hasn’t been privy to in years, it returns at that flash of a boy and the suit sitting on his flesh. He begrudgingly looks at the price tag, knowing he can’t afford it now, knowing that he’ll have to put it back and watch as someone else takes it. This connection forever severed, and he would be lost at sea once again. He doesn’t want to let it go, but those numbers are bigger than all of the money in his bank account, and it would take a couple of months of saving his small paycheck to be able to afford it.

He knows he could ask Margorie to hold it for him, to put it behind the counter and just keep it under lock and key until he can come back to her with all of his savings so that he can reclaim this small piece of himself that he has awoken. He just feels as it’s awkward to ask, but he can’t risk it. He can’t risk losing it.

Checking out was uncomfortable, for him, because he asked her if she could keep it in the backroom until he had the money. There was something in her smile as she said yes, she’d love to. His sigh of relief made her laugh and he chuckled along, hoping that she doesn’t question why he is desperate to hold it to him. He carried the lamp and organizer to his car, and he sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, calming down his raging emotions. A shard of himself was chopped off as he sat there, away from the blue and the boy and that happiness.

To say he was anxiously awaiting his next schedule fill for work was a simplified version of his feelings. He wanted to work more and more hours, to get himself closer to that goal, to get to the point where he can walk into that store and tell her he has the money. None of his co-workers, which is just the older manager, noticed or cared that he was picking up more shifts. He was glad for that because there was no way to explain the way it had captured his mind and held it hostage with the information he didn’t know. He knew it looked desperate, but that suit held something that he didn’t know.

It takes him a couple of months, and very skim spending on his part, but he is now able to afford the suit while still having money for groceries for the next month. He doesn’t have to dip into his already dwindling bank account to buy the suit, so he’ll be good for a while without his dad dropping cash into his lap.

The day he decides to go is on a weekend, on a day he knows she is completely open and free, so that he doesn’t have his weird mental breakdown in front of a couple of confused locals. He’d have one in front of Margorie and then she’d just let him make an excuse. He was starting to think that she knew something, that maybe there was something more to her presence in his life.

All of his money is in bills in his lap, so that he can keep track of it as he drives downtown, towards the lot. He’s been jumpy the rest of the week, throwing himself back into work and music. It’s like his mind has been overactive, and his leg won’t stop bouncing whenever he is sitting in a chair. It’s like he’s a kid again, awaiting Christmas morning.

He sits for a couple of minutes, shuffling through the pile of money and taking time to calm himself down. The excitement was still building, but it no longer felt like it was going to snap like a rubber band once he went inside. He picks up his phone and pockets the money, and then he locks his car. There is something telling him to run to the store, to jump up and down when he gets inside. He can’t though, so he forces himself inside the store. The bell rings and she looks up him, and she stares at him like she knows. He smiles and makes a slow beeline for the register, “So I got the money.” Her smile grows and she nods her head towards the door behind him.

Stan scrambles after her, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. He’s walked this back hallway into the storage room many times, but right now it feels like his first time. His eyes can’t focus, and they keep looking around the hallway until they reached the cramped room. There are endless containers and shelves of clothes with labeled and tape scattered around them. She leads him to a sparse shelf that has a black garment bag hanging alone. He doesn’t even need to get closer to know that it’s the suit, he can feel that warmth returning to him. She picks it up off the rack and they walk back towards the counter, and Stan is smiling.

She lays the bag on the counter and quickly retrieves the tag from inside, and she then types the number into the cash register. He gives her the money when she asks, and she counts it as she puts it in the register. Margorie prints the receipt and places it on top of the bag, and she slides it to him. He gives her a shy smile and takes the bag and paper.

He didn’t even realize he was walking until he reached the car and slipped inside. Stan didn’t make a move to put the keys in the ignition, he sat with the bag in his lap, staring. He slowly moves his hand to unzip it, to look at the suit once again.

The hanger almost slips out of the top as he takes it out, and he knows from the outside that this looks odd. He hugs the suit to himself, and he starts to cry. There isn’t a reason he is bawling, but he lets himself do it anyway. So much is sitting on him now, something he doesn’t understand, but he wants to. He wants to understand who the boy is, he wants to know the words he heard, and he wants to know why there, underlying all this nostalgic glee, is fear. It’s heavy, hot, burning a hole in his stomach. He’s never felt that scared before, never experienced anything like it.

As he hunches himself over, crying into the blue, he feels words wash over him, “ _I swear, Bill._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
